Release
by DoomStone
Summary: Pre-RE 5. Two months fresh from the mission that changed everything, Chris copes with Jill's "death" the only way he truly knows how. Rated T for graphic violence towards an inanimate object and brief rage-induced insanity.


**Release**

Hey everyone. I'm back and I have an angsty, grief-filled one-shot here for you. It kind of fits too, since I wrote the bulk of it in math class. (Shivers) I hate radical functions. They remind me of last year's AP French class. My teacher was a DEMON!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing that you may or may not recognize, including (but not limited to) names, brands, video game franchises involving zombies and bioterrorism, the United States Marine Corps, etc. (End of Thinking Capacity). :-P

Chris gripped the desk with his beefy hand, his other one holding the cell phone to his ear.

"What do you mean you're giving up the search?" he hissed into the phone. It had been 2 months since that fateful mission at the Spencer Estate, and Chris was beside himself with grief over the death of Jill. After listening to the person on the other line talk for a little longer, Chris decided he wouldn't take the bullshit that the man was spouting. With a guttural roar of pure rage, he snapped the phone shut and threw it as hard as he could at the wall behind him. Upon impact, the phone shattered, broken pieces of plastic and metal raining down from the new dent in the drywall. With his now-free fist he pounded the hardwood desk as hard as he possibly could. Yet even the physical pain in his hand could not mask the extreme emotional pain that ripped its way through his heart and pierced his very soul. Chris was odd when it came to grief. With him, he always skipped denial, went straight to anger and was stuck there until he had an emotional outburst extreme enough to snap him out of it. Then he'd be perfectly fine and coping like any other person with a death in the family. Panting now, Chris walked over to the dented wall and with shaky hands felt the hole he had just made. Then he leaned against the wall and let the tears flow freely to accompany the pain-filled, silent sobs that tore from his mouth. After several minutes he clenched his fist. Raising his face from the crook of his elbow, he glared at the dent and bared his teeth, his mind flashing back to those last moments. How Wesker had him in a choke hold, how Jill tackled Wesker, how both of them had tumbled through the broken, stained-glass window.

Chris was undeniably beyond fury, and most definitely beyond help. So for the moment, he coped the only way he truly could. Chris walked through his house and unlocked the armored door to the basement. When the BSAA had finally received the backing of the UN, its founding members were paid handsomely for their previous work and for their devotion to the cause. With that money, Chris and Jill bought a house together and made some serious adjustments. The basement was now not just a tornado shelter, but also a giant shooting range/practice area about half the size of a football field complete with two personal armories and an ammo stockpile able to last them years. Chris crossed (**A/U:** Hehe, see what I did there?) the room and opened up his armory. In it were his modified Beretta M92F "Samurai Edge" from his days in S.T.A.R.S., an automatic Glock 18, a Smith and Wesson Model 29 Magnum, a VZ61 Skorpion SMG, an Ithaca M37 12-gauge shotgun, a Heckler and Koch P8 pistol, a Benelli M3 12-gauge shotgun, a Colt M4A1 Carbine fitted with a RAS railed handguard, a vertical foregrip, and an M68 aimpoint reflex optic, and a Milkor MGL Mk 1L grenade launcher. He also had a stun rod, a small switchblade, and a standard-issue USMC Ka-Bar tactical fighting knife. seeing nothing there that could help get his mind off the pain, Chris slammed the armory door shut and stormed out.

-R-E-P-a-g-e-B-r-e-a-k-R-E-

Several hours later, Chris arrived back home in his silver GMC Topkick, unloaded the things from the bed and set them down inside. He locked the truck, then proceeded to enter and lock the house. After taking several trips into and out of the basement to move the newly acquired items down there, he finally stayed in the basement. Shaking off the protestation of his tired, aching limbs, he opened up his armory and looked down at his newest purchases. Over the last several hours, he had gone to every gun, knife, police supply, and military surplus store in the city and bought quite a few new toys, including a Sig Sauer P226, a Beretta M93R, a 12-gauge Franchi SPAS-12 shotgun, two sawed-off Winchester Model 1887 lever-action shotguns, a Heckler and Koch MP5A3 with a Surefire 628 dedicated forend weaponlight, a Sig Sauer 556, an AK-74, a Sako Model 75 sniper rifle, a Bravo 51 sniper rifle, an SVD Dragunov sniper rifle, a Heckler and Koch PSG1 semi-auto sniper rifle, a Desert Eagle XIX, a Walther P99, and a Cobra Derringer. In the melee department, he got two boot knives, a 6" double-edged dagger, a kukri knife, a modernized Makhaira, a set of throwing knives, several tomahawks, a small hatchet, a set of brass knuckles, a trench knife, a bowie knife, a Mercworx Shiva, and a custom-made Mercworx Goliath.

Taking the Goliath, the Ka-Bar, a tomahawk and 2 throwing knives, he prepared a practice dummy in the center of the room. Standing a good 20 feet away from it, he readied the tomahawk, took careful aim, and threw it, lopping off the dummy's right arm. Moving quickly, he grabbed the throwing knifes in either hand and threw both simultaneously, striking the dummy in its left kidney and its liver areas. Chris pictured the deadly blades piercing Wesker. Then, something in Chris snapped. With an insane look on his face, Chris charged forward at the dummy, drawing the Ka-Bar. When he got close enough, he grabbed the dummy's shoulder with his left hand and pinned it to a wall while he repeatedly stabbed the dummy in the stomach area with the military fighting knife. Subconsciously taking count of the number of stabs, the grieving man yelled and screamed in fury as he struck the dummy. Being but a mortal man, Chris started to get tired and his stabs slowed. Finally, Chris stabbed the dummy for the 271st time and let the knife clatter to the ground.

Panting, Chris heaved himself up onto his feet and stumbled over to a wall, his sudden and extreme cathartic attack taking its toll on his strength. He slid down, back against the wall, and sat on the ground breathing heavily. He covered his face with his hands as he wept, repeatedly sobbing a single muffled word: "Jill…"

**-FIN-**


End file.
